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“Not to be lonely, not to be scared – Boaz had decided that those were the important things in life.” – The Sirens of Titan

A friend recently passed on a lesson about family. We grow up and cultivate relationships of our own choosing, but our families show up for us, he told me, in ways no one else can.

I thought of you then – of how lucky I was to recognize the truth in his statement. I recalled all the sentiments scribbled on birthday cards purchased in haste, and wondered if I could do better this time.

Easiest to articulate is gratitude for the gifts I can grasp with my own palms.

The door to a home whose warm comfort we’ll seek always, even if we protest your refusal to adjust the thermostat (“Why don’t you put on a sweater?” you say with a smile).

The meals and recipes that make it possible to fill newer homes with the familiar scents of old traditions. Dishes piled high with enough food to feed an army. The chicken soup that you fret over despite our insistence that each batch is better than the last. All the carefully labelled lunches packed in our bags when we go.

The arms outstretched to greet us, to soothe us, to say goodbye. Never too hurried, even as we hurry away.

Harder to compose are thanks for gifts that cannot be held, though we grip them just as tightly.

The hours, years, and adventures we’ve stitched into a rich tapestry of shared history. The reassurance that we are not the sole keepers of the stories we’ve collected, both wonderful and strange. The laughter that grows louder with each retelling.

The voices at the end of the phone, listening patiently, devoid of judgement. The advice that is given with no strings attached. We fail to heed it, fail again, forget the words entirely, and your patience is an astounding blessing.

The knowledge of our capacity for ugliness, and the acceptance you extend when we say things we wish we’d never said. You weather the onslaught of anger, frustration, and grief reserved for those we trust will see who we are, and love us still. You forgive first so that we might forgive ourselves.

I am certain that this is the source of all my attempts at bravery. Every chance I take, I take because I know that I can fuck up completely and return to the same home, the same laughter, the same understanding. I can navigate pangs of loneliness and moments of uncertainty with occasional ferocity, because I am fiercely aware of your presence, wherever I find myself. There is no greater gift.

My favourite story is the one I force my parents to tell me, again and again, about the night they met, and the short succession of months that passed before that night could be called with certainty the beginning.

My mom had moved to London from Montreal, and my dad was a recent implant from New Orleans, by way of England, Israel, and his first home in South Africa. She was a teacher, and one of her student’s parents had met my dad at the local Squash club. They asked my mom if she wanted to be introduced to him, and she said yes. It was November.

The night he called her, she had been in a car accident. She told him that no, a date was not possible, but it would be once she had recovered. He thought this sounded like a convenient excuse for declining a blind date, and asked that she call him when she did want to meet. He had a stronger accent then, and I like to think that the minute she heard his voice for the first time she sensed that this stranger would become something else entirely.

In February of the next year, she did call him, and they went on their first date. The last first date for them both.

Before I tell you what happened next I have to emphasize that my mom’s recollection of that night is more precious to me than any other part of the past that I’ve inherited from my family. More precious even than the name given to me to honour the grandfathers I never knew.

She came home, called her mother, and told her, “I’ve met the man I’m going to marry.” Time and again she tells me: when you know, you know.

Marry him she did, in December, barely a year after that first phone call. I understand it was made bittersweet by the absence of their fathers. She had lost hers only a year and a half before. She had a terrible migraine that day, and hated her dress, but she loved him, and he her, and I imagine that the bright spark between them was undeniably felt by all who attended. I feel it now, whenever one of them joins the other in a room, regardless of the length of time spent apart. If you are lucky enough to meet them, watch her eyes find his as she calls to him. Listen to the tenor and warmth of his laugh when he teases her.

That my dad’s recollection of the same first date was slightly different than hers, that he remembers meeting a woman who possessed several qualities he had sworn off in potential mates, does not lessen the story’s magic. It only serves to remind me that our stories are never wholly ours. We can write the first few lines before they take on lives of their own, bending and opening up space for the characters we could never have given shape to ourselves.

He tells us that she was a nail-biter, who smoked and had terrible taste in fashion, as evidenced by the ugly brown pants she was wearing (his assessment, not hers). He also had a girlfriend in New York that he had not quite broken up with yet. He did not call her after that night; he had other chapters to close. Had it not been her – had it not been them – this might have been the story’s conclusion. If you are lucky enough to meet them, you will understand why it was not.

She called him, and he answered, and almost all at once their lives became this life. It is one that I do not give thanks for often enough – one that has become so much more than its beginning. The beauty of falling in love pales next to the beauty of accepting and continuing to love another person through all that comes next.

He supported her while she earned her PhD and they raised two young children. She welcomed his mother into our home as she neared the end of her life. He helped her pack up her mother’s apartment after she died. My dad’s nomadic tendencies have not lessened with age. He tells her he plans on scaling mountains, and I know that she wishes she could walk next to him. I also know that theirs is a relationship of deep respect for the other’s independence and wholeness of spirit. She will let him go, when he needs to go. He will never begrudge her the hesitation.

Careers expanded. Adventure called them to far corners of the earth, both together and apart. Children grew up (mostly), and left for new homes. Sickness brought darkness, and recovery even greater resilience. The spark remained. My chest swells contemplating the ways they have loved each other in those moments. Such is the weight of their story.

So when she tells me that she knew, the night she met him, that this life would be theirs, her words are precious.

There were times that those same words made me uneasy, because I had never come close to uttering them. Then I shared this story with someone for the first time, hoping to pass on at least a tiny sliver of the magic it contained. To tell it, I thought, and still be as stirred by the words as I was; to believe this deeply that such a meeting of souls was possible, was enough.

I don’t know if ours is the story I will be asked to retell, but I know that it will find its place on a blank page soon.

I don’t know how this ends, but I know that I am grateful for its beginning.

I stood at the countertop, sweat forming on my furrowed brow, and kneaded the dough just as my father taught me. Sinking my weight into it over and over, I worked in the flour until the cracks were made smooth and it felt as I remembered it should. Patiently I let it rise – three times – and broke it into small pieces for braiding. Accepting that my fourth attempt at a six-strand braid would have to do, I carefully coated it with an egg wash that I hoped would impart a deep amber shine.

Home, I thought, is in a hot kitchen made dusty with flour. Here, where cookies cool by the window and chocolate babkas wait to be drenched in sticky sweet gloss.

Home, I thought, is by the bookshelves filled with volumes collected since childhood. Here, where I scan the titles for the next escape. Here, where I stop speaking long enough to look for words worth sharing.

Home, I thought, is in the garden I’ve barely begun to tend. Here, where the flowers died before autumn, and I promised to do better next year. Here, where the mums planted as summer departed are blossoming still, lending colour and warmth to grey stone steps.

Home, I thought, is in a bedroom dotted with pictures that remind me of the places I occupied before this one. Here, where I dream of the beauty I’ve left behind and the less fully formed possibility of what’s to come.

The challah was nearly finished baking and the house was filled with the scent of so many other holidays and Friday afternoons in a home several hours away. I pulled the tray from the oven with relief. The braided loaf was golden brown, and, albeit slightly misshapen, still unmistakably round – a nod to the holiday I was hosting for the first time.

Home, I thought, is in the dining room where friends gather to celebrate. Here, where I stumble over phrases I barely understand to honour traditions that will survive far longer than these four walls. Here, where I create the memories that I will pack along with my belongings when I go. And go I will, though I don’t know when.

For now it feels right to settle in. Here, where I leave my keys with quiet gratitude on the mantle each evening. Home, after all, is in the place you rest before the next door asks to be unlocked.

Every Friday we sit down to dinner with our closest friends and family, sharing food and good company at one of four houses. The menus change, of course, but many dishes are as familiar as the people who prepare them. I can taste them now: Aunt Hazel’s chicken curry, Judy’s veal brisket, Jesse’s couscous, and my mom’s herb-crusted salmon, to name only a few. My dad is a wonderful cook, and he has whipped up countless dinner hits over the years, but his challah stands alone. His expertly prepared loaves are warmed with nostalgia and the memory of hundreds of Fridays gone by.

After I moved back home I told my dad that I was ready to learn how to make his challah. Up until this point I had avoided baking bread; as an inexperienced baker, I prefer precise recipes that leave little room for error. Bread is unpredictable, and my dad’s baking process is untidy in a way that has always maddened me slightly. He has a recipe, but it is more scribble than guide. His variations on the quantity of sugar and eggs make the bread his own. He does not measure out the flour carefully as I do. He neglects to shake the cup lightly to allow the grains to settle, and never sweeps the butter knife across the top to create a flat surface. He throws flour into the mix with ease, watching the dough gather and form, knowing instinctively when it is ready to be turned out and kneaded.

I am soon proving a less than capable student. I have split the readied dough into two rolls and braided it according to his patient instructions, but it isn’t working. The dough is sticking too much, as if the braid is melting into itself, and he tells me to start over. I knead it back together and he shows me how to use the whole weight of my body to press the dough into the counter. I separate it into two pieces again. He watches me roll, careful to point out the uneven parts so that I end up with something uniform from end to end. I lay one piece across the other and gingerly make my braid once more. A brush of egg wash and a sprinkle of sesame seeds later, I stare at the challah in near disbelief. It looks just like his. He is, in spite of my stubbornness, an exceptional teacher.

The challah is baking in the oven, and I sit with a cup of steaming tea in hand, breathing in the heady scent of my favourite bread. I glance up at a photograph hanging next to the pantry that shows my late Granny Rae’s hand on a piece of kichel dough, gently pulling it through a rusted metal pasta roller. Our parents ate her kichel with the traditional chopped herring, but my sister and I snatched them up plain, all sugar and delectable crumb. As my dad showed me how to braid the challah dough, my mom might have said that it seemed as if Granny was back in the kitchen, happy to see us baking again.

Tonight, in a place that is much too far from where I sit, my sister is busy baking her own challahs. She called me earlier this evening in a slight panic over the state of the yeast. Having thrown out two batches that failed to proof, she was about to embark on a third attempt. I told her to use a different kind of yeast, and after consulting with my dad, she started over. We chatted while she watched and waited, until it finally began to bubble. She’ll be busy kneading now, and in an hour or so, she’ll fashion her braids the way dad taught us to. I imagine her standing at a counter dusted with flour, working the dough, just as our granny did on countless other Fridays. Her hands are younger, but they carry a timeless wisdom. It is a wisdom spun from a generation that survives in photographs and recipes scribbled on yellowed paper. Years from now, when my sister’s hands are lined and worn with age, I know that they will still be consumed with the same task – creating that which fills the belly and the heart.

We want to learn to make what they made, and when it isn’t quite right, we are grateful for the kind father who shows us how. For all the Fridays I missed – for all the help I neglected to offer – for all the hours and days I fear I’ve long forgotten – I will commit at least this lesson in bread making to memory. I will remember to pause each week, to knead, turn, and honour with some small act the treasured traditions and beloved hands whose palms fell soft upon my young shoulders.

The evening after I left Botswana for good, my aunt pulled the loveliest loaf of sourdough bread out of the oven. It was the simple and perfect combination of rye flour and her home-grown sourdough starter. I ate it hot, toasted, and slathered with butter and the creamiest honey I’ve ever sampled. We sat on the couch savouring slices for dessert, while watching Ina Garten bake a three-tiered chocolate buttercream cake. We laughed together at the delicious excess, and I forgot for a moment or two the previous afternoon’s goodbyes that had left my eyes red.

I had two slices for lunch the next day and savoured each bite, until it was time to drag my duffel to the front door. I closed the gate behind me and prepared to bid South Africa farewell, the unmistakable taste of home still lingering on my lips. Two long flights later, I walked into a much colder house. For the first time in years I did not have to face the prospect of leaving after a few weeks of long-awaited hellos; I was a permanent resident again.

Jobless and directionless, I found myself slightly terrified.

There were countless things that needed to be done – unpacking was certainly high on the list – but there was only one thing I felt like doing.

I started to bake. I spent my first Saturday back in Canada whipping up a pumpkin pie, a sweet potato pie, and a large batch of granola. I restocked the pantry with flour and sugar, and started buying an abundance of unsalted butter sticks. I became an avid Smitten Kitchen follower, and this resulted in my first chocolate babka attempt. I was too intimidated to go it alone, and was grateful for a wonderful friend who spent six hours teaching me to proof, knead, and turn. Our efforts were more than rewarded. It was as if chocolate and butter had married to produce a sweet and fluffy dough baby, with a heavy sprinkle of sugary crumble on top for good measure. If you think I sound crazy, I assume you’ve never tasted a great chocolate babka, and would suggest you do so as soon as possible.

There were adventures in cookies, chocolate ganache, and apple crumble. I made my first batch of cinnamon buns, going through several sachets of yeast before I was convinced they were activating properly. I made pie crust after pie crust, willing the flutes I shaped to stay in place when they baked. There was a failed experiment in royal icing; my distaste for the flavour was compounded by an apparent inability to pipe the stuff onto Martha’s sugar cookies. My cupcakes are not fantastic yet, and I suspect I’m about ten years away from tackling anything with tiers.

I possess no culinary prowess – I follow recipes to the letter and hope for the best. How then, can I explain that I am happiest standing at my counter with a rolling pin in hand, covered in a fine film of flour? Perhaps it is the same joy I imagine we all experience when we create something with our own hands that might be offered to those dear to us, whether or not the edges burn or the icing melts.

Soon after I came home my mom had to undergo major surgery, followed by a long and tough recovery. Not a night went by in those first few weeks that we did not share a meal that had been delivered to us by family and friends. They organized a supper rotation and made sure that our fridge was never empty. When I think about our little community, I realize that this is how it has always been. Wherever we are celebrating life, struggling through illness, or mourning death, there will be an abundance of food. Without knowing what to say, we can still show up, armed with sustenance.

I have been told that we must avoid confusing food with love. Even as the food itself nourishes, real fullness cannot be found on a plate. I suppose I see truth in this sentiment, but I would also argue that while food might not be love, making it is certainly an act of love.

A hearty meal is a gift that heals. The right cookies will put a smile on a friend’s face. I will even venture to tell you that a slice of homemade bread can ease the pain of difficult goodbyes when words really won’t do.

I put it off for a good two weeks, until my floor was barely visible. I might have left it longer, but suddenly I was flying to Vancouver the next day to visit my sister and I could not pack until I tackled it. It was the mess of stuff accumulated during three years in Africa that I had casually left scattered across my desk, and on the floor in several bags and piles. Hours later I had succeeded in cleaning the space, and in finding a place for all the odd items I had been hesitant to sort through. A lot ended up in the trash. I let go of tickets, receipts, and old baggage tags. Whatever I planned to keep fit into a single tin box that used to contain assorted chocolates. I placed it gently atop one of several boxes that line the bottom shelf of my bookcase, under a stack of mostly empty diaries, and rows of texts I have admired more than read. The whole room seems to me an homage to false starts and lofty dreams that were never fully realized.

I used to call them my “memory boxes.” As I grew up it seemed foolish to keep so many scraps of the past, be they ticket stubs or notes passed in class, but I could not throw them away. Each adventure brought me new bits and pieces to save. High school and summer camp each had a box. My first trip to Africa had one too. There was a place for four years of university and a nook for the year spent studying afterwards in England. The collection has grown over the years and can no longer be arranged in as organized a fashion, and some have been relegated to the floor. I doubt I’d save them first in a fire, but so they remain after all this time, collecting dust.

Three years of swamp adventures (with a few sand dunes thrown in for good measure) were safely tucked away. Now was the time for fresh ambition and new goals. I would order more books! I would take up spinning and yoga and maybe run a half-marathon! I would find a new job, of course, and a perfect apartment that was really a small house, because I’ve always imagined having my own backyard and front porch. Once I’d ticked X next to all of these items on my not-at-all naive to-do list I would be able to get the thing I’ve wanted since I was old enough to conceive of my dreams in the first place: a puppy.

It will probably come as no surprise that my initial excitement and decisiveness has faded significantly since I arrived home last month. The only thing I am sure of is the name and breed of said puppy. I plan to have a boxer, and while I paused for some time considering the name Henry Higgins, I am now entirely committed to calling him Captain von Trapp, for obvious reasons. I might even take up sewing and fashion him a winter sweater out of curtains, because even dogs need play clothes!

Apologies for digressing.

Today I sat down to come up with a suitable name for this space, and to write about more immediate experiences. I’ve been home for a while, and life has gone on, albeit at a quieter pace than I’m used to. Frustrated by a lack of inspiration, I found myself with a chocolate box open next to the computer. I glanced gingerly at a few visible items; there were handwritten letters, postcards and photographs, and a note fashioned from dung and earth that welcomed me to the place where I touched the soft skin of an elephant for the first time, feeling the weight of ivory and wisdom in my hand.

This blog needs a makeover – a spring clean if you will. I am no longer in Africa, and that will certainly inform my words from here on out. It also occurred to me today that I do not wish to add to my collection of little boxes. A tin container cannot hold the breadth of an adventure or the impact of wide-eyed discovery. There are too many stories enclosed to leave them shut. While I’m attempting to find a new place and function in my old stomping grounds, I want to record what I can of my most recent journey before it becomes too difficult to remember the more minute details, like the way the black and white feathers of my beloved pied kingfisher catch the light of setting sun over delta channels.

It’s often trying to focus on a place you still miss with large parts of your heart. Boxes don’t help much, but words do.

“Sometimes I need
only to stand
wherever I am
to be blessed.”
– Mary Oliver